


back to you

by drunktuesdays



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Napping, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/drunktuesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don’t need a babysitter," Stiles says.  "Scott’s wrong, I can be alone."</p>
<p>"I don’t plan to babysit," Derek says, turning his back, heading back to bed.  "Sleep or find something quiet to do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	back to you

When Derek opens the door, Stiles looks embarrassed and sullen, prickly, like he would start a fight with the least bit of provocation. 

"Scott already called," Derek says, not having the energy for it. "It’s fine."

"I don’t need a babysitter," Stiles says. "Scott’s wrong, I can be alone."

"I don’t plan to babysit," Derek says, turning his back, heading back to bed. "Sleep or find something quiet to do."

When he says it, he expects Stiles to take the couch, if he sleeps, to stretch out there. He doesn’t say anything though, when Stiles kicks off his shoes, slides in next to Derek. Derek’s too tired for it, rolls over to put his back to the morning sun streaming in through the windows and goes back to sleep.

He surfaces hours later, the sun high in the afternoon sky. He reaches for his phone and opens the Domino’s app, orders a pizza and falls back to sleep. 

The proximity alarm goes off twenty minutes later, making both of them bolt upright, before Derek remembers what it is. He goes downstairs, signs for the food and brings it up, putting it between them on the bed.

"You ever think of getting a doorbell?" Stiles says, rubbing his eyes. He’s got the imprint of Derek’s pillow on his cheek, and his hair’s tousled, looks like he’d run his hair carelessly through it. Derek shoves a piece of pizza in his mouth, shrugs. He has thought about it, actually. but it seems like the sort of thought you’d have to go out, turn around three times, and spit after. 

"You got plans for today?" Stiles says, after a minute. "I’m not keeping you from anything?"

"Nah," Derek says. "Just sleep." They demolish the rest of the pizza in silence, and without talking about it, slide back down and pass out again. 

The next time Derek wakes, he’s on Stiles’s side of the bed, curved up against Stiles’s side. Stiles has his hand resting casually on the back of Derek’s neck, and Derek’s leg is tangled up between Stiles’s. He picks his head up, looks to see if Stiles is awake. 

He hasn’t looked at Stiles in a long time, not really. The bruised skin under his eyes looks a little eased, but his face is still thinned out, sharp. Part of it, Derek thinks, is just Stiles’s growing up, growing into his skin and his face, losing the baby face he had before. Some of it, he knows, is the Nemeton and what it did to him, the nightmares and the hallucinations. Stiles can’t be alone for long, not yet, no matter what he says. Derek’s gone on enough hunting trips for him, tracking him down from whatever hysterical delusion he’s been worked up on. 

Derek wishes sometimes, he knew Stiles more before life turned him like this, but he doesn’t know what a normal teenager looks like, never has.

"Creep," Stiles says, without opening his eyes. The fingers on the back of Derek’s neck start carding the hair there. "We should go out."

"Out where?" Derek says. He should shrug Stiles off, usually does when they get close to this. He’s the one that makes sure they maintain their distance, but he doesn’t want to, not today. 

"I don’t know," Stiles says. "It’s Christmas. We should go find something special to eat."

Derek thinks about it for a minute, and then blurts, “It’s my birthday.”

"Today?" Stiles’s fingers spasm and tighten, and it feels like he’s holding Derek still, has him by the back of the neck.  
"Yeah," Derek says, without nodding, not dislodging Stiles’s hold. 

Stiles squeezes once, and then moves, shoving the blankets off and rolling Derek off. ”That does it,” he says. ”We’re going out.”

They jump in Stiles’s car, and Stiles moves with an ease through the town. ”Most places are closed,” he says, “the chain stores, anyway. I think Abdul’s is open.” It is, and they go in, get a cart. Stiles directs the operation, gets chips and salsa, a container of cupcakes Derek just knows Stiles is gonna stick candles in. 

When he lingers over the frozen food, Derek clears his throat, says “I don’t have an oven.”

"Microwave?" Stiles asks, and Derek shakes his head. Hasn’t been a priority, and take-out serves him well enough. 

"Rent-a-center is open," Stiles says. "We could spoil ourselves silly for our BirthMas celebration."

Derek looks at him, with his bright, sincere eyes, and shrugs in agreement. Stiles reaches out, squeezes the back of his neck, and Derek leans into it, can’t help it. He’s the one that maintains their distance, but he’s failing at it today. 

They get a microwave. They also get a TV and a DVD player, and they stop at Stiles’s house and grab a handful of DVDs. Derek looks around the Stilinski’s living room, the comfortable chairs and the decorations that have gone a little dusty, lived in. ”Your dad still working?”

"Yeah," Stiles says, tensing. "Criminals don’t stop on holidays. Why, you regretting this?"

"No," Derek says, and leads him back out to the car.

They climb back into bed, not even sparing a look at the couch. The burritos are warm on Derek’s lap, and Stiles hits play on the Three Stooges remake, settles close to Derek. Derek should move over, give them an inch but he doesn’t. 

"I haven’t slept like that in awhile." Stiles says, after a bit. The movie is terrible and neither of them are even watching it.

Derek hums in agreement, says “I think we needed it.” 

Stiles takes their plates, walks over to the kitchen and rinses them, before he comes back. Derek’s not tired now, feels good. He thinks about suggesting they move to the couch, curl up on opposite ends, That’s what he should say. 

He doesn’t. When Stiles comes back to the bed, he doesn’t slide back in next to Derek. Instead he puts a knee over Derek’s hips, settles into Derek’s lap. 

"You gonna stop me?" Stiles says, and his hands brace on Derek’s chest, palms burning into Derek’s skin.

S’posed to, Derek thinks, but it’s Christmas and his birthday, and he’s been napping all day like he’s been dying to, and things are quiet, peaceful. He’s not the alpha, and Stiles is an adult, long able to make his own decisions. There were other places Stiles could have gone to today, but Scott sounded like he knew Derek would say yes from the moment he asked. 

Derek pulls Stiles down in answer, kisses him like he’s been wanting. Stiles is warm everywhere he touches, skimming over his ribs, tracing the line of his shoulders, dipping into the back of Stiles’s pants. 

Stiles is single-minded in his focus, his hands cupping Derek’s jaw, kissing him fiercely, like he’s still trying to persuade Derek. Derek’s long past fighting this now, doesn’t know how to say he’s given in, that he’s willing, that he wants this. 

He tumbles them sideways, kicking the blankets out of the way. Stiles starfishes, letting Derek settle between his legs. 

"Tell me to stop," Derek says, hands at Stiles’s belt.

"You know I won’t," Stiles answers, steady, sure. 

"You should," Derek says, and then dips down, takes Stiles into his mouth. 

He doesn’t taste special, doesn’t taste magically of flavors and spices. He tastes like skin, sweat, of sleep and Derek’s bed. Derek likes it, likes the weight on his tongue, the stretch of his lips, and the way Stiles groans, fingers skittering restlessly on the sheets. Derek takes one, puts Stiles’s hand over his neck and Stiles squeezes, holds him tight, as Derek takes him deeper, sucks him until he comes, warm and salty on his tongue.

Stiles gets him naked after, throws both their clothes in the direction of the tv, muffling the huk-huk-huk of the Stooges. Stiles turns over, lets Derek put his cock between his thighs and thrust. It’s not quite slick enough, only wet with their combined sweat and spit and Derek thinks about getting Stiles wetter, getting him slick and open and it’s that that pushes him over the edge, soaks Stiles’s balls and thighs with his come. 

They shower, sleepy and pliant again, and Stiles herds them both back into bed, arranges Derek in his arms the way he wants him. Derek lets him, too content and happy to take charge himself. 

"Merry Christmas," he says, quiet, when they’re settled. 

"Happy birthday," Stiles answers, and Derek shoves his smile into Stiles’s armpit, and they sleep again, curled into each other, warm, safe.

**Author's Note:**

> so you been sleeping with a thief in your bed  
> stole your heart, and your pillows


End file.
